


Mumford and Sons, Sigh No More/Sandor Clegane Challenge

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Romance, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:39:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A self imposed challenge in which I intend to relate each song on Mumford and Sons album Sigh No More to Sandor Clegane’s life. Absolutely no restrictions. Any length, rating, universe, pairing, pov or theme is fair game. Anything from the fluffiest of all fluff to the darkest pits of despair. Assume that any warning you can think of will take place including but not limited to rape, torture, suicide, abuse. But seriously, good stuff too! One chapter for one song.  Also assume that nothing is canon. Though I try to stay true when I can, I also like to play around. I highly suggest you listen to the matching song to go along with each chapter.</p><p>"On the Quiet Isle the Elder Brother picked mercilessly at his memories of the Little Bird. So many whys were asked of him. Why did he protect her? Why did he not beat her as the others had? Why did he seek her out above all others the night the water had burned? He denied the truth. He fought it tooth and nail. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, he didn’t realize the harder he struggled, the tighter the noose became. Choking, it poured forth from him one night, tears sliding down his face. He loved her! He loved what would never be his."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sigh No More

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t get the image of Sandor boarding a ship out of my head so I’ve played around with a little info from the books. Just roll with it. Also .. I think I may have inadvertently given Jack Sparrow a cameo here. This amuses me.

The salt crusted longboat, pushed itself into the pebbled line of a shore. The Red Keep towered in front of him. It had been years since he’d turned his back on it, and now, he was there to face it once again. It would be easier to pace the halls this time around though. Little sorrow would be had for the both of them since the last time they had been there together. 

 

Five years back, he had lurched drunkenly from the Little Bird’s chambers to his own, searching for the last of his Tourney winnings while he wiped at the tacky blood and dried tears on his face. Stranger had been next on his list of the items he wished to take from the Keep. As lost in his cups as he had been an hour ago, adrenaline now blazed through the alcohol to leave him buzzing with focused energy. His limbs felt heavy but his mind was racing down a path he had not yet traveled in his life. Freedom. Twenty eight years old and he didn’t have the slightest idea of what the word truly meant. He’d find out soon enough. 

 

Roads seemed a dangerous way to travel. Too many guards to pass that way and his face would draw unwanted attention. If any call had been put out for him he’d have to fight his way through in order to keep the precious independence he’d just gained. On the eastern shoreline some of shipping docks had amazingly dodged the fire. Once he made his way there, he found a single ship hastily leaving the harbor to avoid the spreading green flames; the Captain glad to have him on-board for a price. Leading his horse, he placed silver into the sailor’s hand, and put one boot on the ramp to the ship. He froze, one foot still on the dock, before finding his courage and advancing. There was no turning back now. Sandor Clegane had taken the first few steps into his new life. 

 

The churning in his guts during the trip had little to due with the waves; it was brought on by the gripping, terrifying thought that he could do anything from this point forward. He’d seen a lot of land in his time but all under the order of men above him. Never of his own volition. He could go anywhere. His skills as a fighter would give him a position wherever he chose. He could set his own price and terms, not the other way around. There was no end to the possibilities that lay before him. Heart rapidly beating, he took in a deep breath and sighed. It was a new feeling, this almost tangible nervousness. It wasn’t fear like the fire had given him. This trembling awareness was life. It was coursing through his veins at a pace he couldn’t keep up with. The Captain walked by, seeing his shaking leg, and offered him a bottle. Rum. Not his first choice but it would do. 

 

The only regret he had was the Little Bird he had left behind. His absence was sure to bestow more suffering upon the girl. He felt shame that he had abandoned her, but if he had stayed it would have been his head. He wasn’t ready to lie down and die yet. Maybe, one day, they would meet again. If that happened, he would swear the rest of his days to her in service. She was the only master he wished for other than himself. 

 

On the Quiet Isle the Elder Brother picked mercilessly at his memories of the Little Bird. So many whys were asked of him. Why did he protect her? Why did he not beat her as the others had? Why did he seek her out above all others the night the water had burned? He denied the truth. He fought it tooth and nail. Like a rabbit caught in a snare, he didn’t realize the harder he struggled, the tighter the noose became. Choking, it poured forth from him one night, tears sliding down his face. He loved her! He loved what would never be his. If he could ever be granted time at her side again, he would never leave it. He would crawl on his belly through coals to have the chance at it. Even if it meant watching her wed another and raise a family; he would bear the torture so that he could continue on in her presence. Months turned into years and he never stopped loving her. 

 

When the Elder Brother had told him of the Queen in the North’s struggle he knew the holy man was giving his silent blessing. He packed his few possessions and left the following day. When he arrived there was no other man to stand in his way. The time spent apart had solidified his place in her heart as surely has hers had molded itself to his own. He told her of his love; he was tired of living in fear. The torch he carried for her had set him free of fear. It had carried him through the years of quiet reflection. It had put motion into his feet on that half rotted ramp to the Prayer. It had put strength in his voice when he refused to put himself in harm’s way any longer the night of the Blackwater. She had cried at his words before pulling him down and placing her lips upon his, swearing her love in return. 

 

Back on the shore before the Red Keep, his boots half in water and half on land, he turned to scoop his wife up into his arms. She could have walked on her own but he wouldn’t allow her to dampen her feet when his arms could provide a solution. He carried her, bridal style, far up onto the shore, where no trace of sea remained. He didn’t care who watched. He’d learned to embrace their love; to run towards and not away from that which made him happy. She kissed his cheek before he set her down. One hand on his arm, the brilliant candle of flame in his life led him through the doors of their new home.


	2. The Cave

There had been weeks of rage. They had given the soldier a room with a few other Brothers, in the beginning, thinking company might calm him. They had been wrong. Between his night terrors and his fits of fury, no one wanted to room with him. The Elder Brother hated to do it, but eventually he had to put Sandor in a room by himself. He knew it would make the man feel even more isolated but it couldn’t be avoided for the time being. Until the man learned to stop lashing out physically, he had to think of the safety of the other Brothers. 

 

He ended up putting the broken man in the room next to his. That way, if Clegane called out in the night, it would be easy to tend to him personally. His heart weighed heavy for the man. He would wake to horrible sounds of terror coming from the man’s room. Stumbling blindly in the dark he would find Sandor, eyes glassy with ghosts only he could see, hands pressed to his ears while he screamed. It would take time to get the man to realize the cries he heard were his own and not the voices of others he had been the cause of in his lifetime. The Elder Brother sympathized. He knew the struggle the mind faced when it was no longer kept busy with its usual distraction of violence or vices.

 

He visited with Sandor daily. Usually later in the evening so as not to ruin the day for the man, though he knew he risked disturbing the man’s sleep. It was a hard choice to make. Everything about the man was difficult, but he knew the fight was worth it. One man’s soul returned to him was treasure beyond measurement in gold. Most evenings ended in terrible acts of wrath. 

 

Sandor Clegane had a tongue of fire and fists of thunder. He was far from simple. He found more and more exquisite ways to use his knowledge to try to cause fear in those around him. Never once did the Elder Brother take the soldier’s words to heart. Clegane threatened him with violence that never occurred. It was objects and not people that met with the man’s hands. He knew Sandor only wished for others to understand the hurt he carried inside him. Slowly, he was teaching the man that, sometimes, words were more helpful than actions.

 

If Sandor had been an animal, he would have been a frightful beast. A snarling, foaming, biting, clawing, furred atrocity, gnawing at its own foot caught in a trap. But he wasn’t an animal. He was a man. A fact that the Elder Brother drove into him daily. Bellowing shouts would ensue, wood would splinter, and dishes would shatter. The Elder Brother wouldn’t give up. If he could make Sandor realize that, no matter what he did, there was going to be one person on his side always, the door to healing would open to him. The man thought himself alone when he was surrounded by those ready to help him shoulder his burdens. 

 

It happened a month after his arrival to the Isle. There had been a crack in his rant of the night. The Elder Brother seized it, pushing until he could sense Sandor breaking. Tears were pouring out of the man’s eyes while he continued to kick at nothing and holler at all the Gods he could remember. He seemed surprised when he rubbed at his face to discover wetness. And then he had crumbled; falling into a ball on the floor, clutching at his knees while ragged sobs tore through him. The Edler Brother sat quietly nearby. Close enough to be of comfort but still a respectable distance away. When the man wailed, he dared to lay a hand on his trembling shoulder. Sandor didn’t shove it away. Progress had been made. When Sandor had lifted himself off the ground, scrubbing at his face with his robes, the Elder Brother had lifted his sleeves to bear his wrists to his struggling companion. The scars were old but still quite visible. 

 

“You’d think, with all my experience handling a knife, I’d have learned to do it properly,” he told Clegane. The man nodded back to him. Sandor hadn’t taken the same route but he had been close at times. They understood one another. 

 

Rage began to mellow into sorrow. Screams of terror in the night became shuddering cries. Fits of temper became rivers of tears. The local potter was glad the weekly need for new dishes had ceased. It was a new sort of pain for the man to learn to bear but the Elder Brother tried to reassure him it would fade with time just as surely as the anger had. He gave the man a shovel. During the day Clegane buried his sins, and at night he wept for forgiveness. 

 

And then the day came, when he sat with the man and talked of past events. Sandor spoke of a girl, barely a woman, and smiled. A brief twitch of lips grew into grins and laughter over the next few months. He watched the man dabble into new territory; places called peace, tranquility and happiness. By embracing his faults, by seeking forgiveness, Sandor had used his pain to create a foundation on which hope could build upon. 

 

The Elder Brother heard nothing but silence from the room next to his throughout the night. A new Brother joined them and Clegane asked if the man could board with him. Sandor took the man under his wing, mimicking the Elder Brother in council. The wheel of healing had come full circle and he knew that the Hound had died while Sandor Clegane lived.


	3. Winter Winds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to L4a and underthenorthernlights because . . .jelly beans!

Sansa Stark was on her tip toes, her tongue stuck between her teeth. Though she was tall for a woman, the box she wanted was just out of reach. The store had thousands of shoes all stacked from floor to ceiling. The particular pair of Martin’s she wanted was, of course, on one of the top rows. She stretched with all of her might, trying to remember the ballet lessons of her youth. It did no good. Every single time her hand came up centimeters short. 

 

One more try, she told herself. She nearly had it, but her fingers slipped off of the glossy cardboard uselessly, causing her to lose her footing. She stumbled backwards, fearing a fall, but hit a wall instead. Confusion struck her for a split second. There hadn’t been a wall behind her minutes ago. And then a rough male voice came. 

 

“Oi! Steady on!” the voice shouted.

 

She spun around. The wall was black. Craning her neck up she realized it was a man not a wall she had staggered into. A giant, skyscraper of a man. He was a pattern of black and gray; black shoes, gray jeans, black shirt, gray eyes, black hair. Long, lanky black hair that was parted sharply to the left and covered half his face. He had a day or two’s worth of stubble on his face. Under one arm he carried a shoebox and a thick, charcoal colored coat. In the other hand, he held a now empty cup of coffee. The contents of said cup were soaking through his t-shirt due to her clumsiness. 

 

“I beg your pardon!” she cried, fishing in her purse to find some tissues. She found what she needed, and started to blot at his chest. He stared at her incredulously. Her hand slowed in its actions. Was she feeling that right? He felt like steel. She wasn’t trying to exaggerate or be romantic. The monochrome man was solid as brick; no wonder she had thought she’d hit a wall. She poked at him with a finger to make sure. Yes, some sort of man- rock hybrid, she confirmed. 

 

“The fuck?” he growled, smacking her fingers away. 

 

“Sorry,” she yelped, yanking her hand back. What in the world had come over her? That had been terribly rude. He looked something between miffed and intrigued. 

 

“What’re you after?” he asked, nodding his head at the shelves. His voice was a rumble dragged across a pavement strewn with cigarettes. 

 

“Oh! Um, the red Docs. Size four,” she stammered. She was tall but her feet petite. 

“Pffft. Got enough red already,” he sneered, gesturing to her hair. 

 

“Yes, well, you asked,” she mumbled. What was wrong with wearing shoes the same color as her hair? He was. 

 

His hand reached out for the shoes she wanted. He didn’t have to stretch at all. The box was eye level with him. 

 

“Here,” he said, tossing the correct shoes into her arms, and shoving past her. 

 

“Wait! Hang on!” she shouted. He turned to her, tapping his foot. 

 

“Let me buy you another cup of coffee at least,” she smiled. The large man grunted and walked away around a corner. Was that acceptance or refusal? She stood, puzzled and still. His head poked back from around the stacks of shoes.

 

“You coming?” he barked. She jumped and ran after him. At the till he gestured for her to go first. While she waited on him to finish his purchase she dug her phone out to check her messages. Arya, Gendry and Pod were all trying to get her attention. She skimmed through the texts and started when his voice boomed. 

 

“Red!” he bellowed, now at the door. “Quit messing about. Haven’t got all day.” 

 

She bit her lip. What was she doing? She’d just offered to buy a strange, almost aggressively gruff man a cup of coffee. He was older than her but not elderly. He probably had ten or so years on her twenty. But she had spilled his coffee and her finishing school years came back to her, the prim Ms. Lockie whispering in her ear that a polite girl would replace that which she lost, broke, or ruined. And Camden High Street was a public as public got. She would be fine, she reassured herself, stepping through the door, which he held open for her; a quick cup of coffee and she never had to deal with him again. 

 

On the street, he put on his coat like it had personally affronted him and she stifled a smirk. They had the same attire; a thick, wool peacoat with the same amount of buttons. Only hers was the pale pink of dawn and his black as night. He tugged at the collar roughly, flipping it up around his neck.

 

“Where to?” he asked. The bitter wind caught his hair revealing the left side of his face and she bit her cheek hard to stop from gasping. He was scarred on that side. Terribly so, deep twists and valleys of red, blotchy skin covering him from jaw to scalp. It wasn’t a hideous site to her, but it was a shock and her eyes must have said so. 

 

“Want a better look?” he growled.

 

“No!” she automatically answered and then smacked herself internally. “I mean I wouldn’t mind. That is I. . .” she trailed off. She was only digging the hole deeper.

 

He rolled his eyes at her. “Come on then. Where’s the coffee?”

 

She led him across the street and over a few blocks to her favorite shop. It was a popular spot and there was a wait at the counter. Once they were out of the wind she saw him smooth his hair back down over his scars. He leaned against a wall, ignoring her as the line moved along. Soon, the man at the counters signaled it was their turn to order. He smiled at her warmly.

 

“What’ll you have, love?” he asked. 

 

“I’d like a decaf cappuccino, please, with soymilk,” she ordered, “and whatever he’s having as well, put it on my tab.” 

 

“For you, sir?” the barista asked. 

 

She heard her large companion mumble, “Christ, not a sir,” before he raised his voice to answer the man behind the counter.

 

“Large. Dark.”

 

“Italian, Spanish, or French?”

 

“Jesus!”

 

“That’s not a brand we carry, sir.”

 

“You fucking posh tosser, I’ll –“

 

“The Spanish!” she cut in, desperate to stop whatever was happening from escalating. “He’ll take the Spanish!”

 

“Cream or sugar?” 

 

She was certain the barista had a death wish. 

 

“Black!” both she and the tall man yelled in unison.

 

Once they had their cups, they walked to the register to pay. She pulled out a credit card and swore she heard him snort. There were candies lined up by the register, and she grabbed a bag of Jelly Bellys on impulse. 

 

“Did you want anything?” she offered, pointing to the sweets. He shook his head. 

 

“Are you sure? I don’t mind, you –“

 

“I said no,” he barked. 

 

“Fine, fine” she answered, taking her credit card back from the pretty girl at the till. “Did you want to sit?” she questioned, pointing out one of the few free tables. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, glanced at it and shrugged.

 

“Suppose I got a minute.” 

 

“So, what’s your angle then, Red?” he probed once they had taken a seat. 

 

“Nothing and my name is Sansa. I spilt your coffee. The proper thing to do would be to get you another.”

 

“Proper,” he snorted, taking a gulp of his coffee and grimacing.

 

“Is something wrong with it?” she questioned, blowing on her own. 

 

“It’s hot,” he grumbled. 

 

“Yes, well coffee generally is,” she stated.

 

“You taking the piss?” 

 

“No, I’m only suggesting you wait a moment before you try to bolt down hot coffee,” she scolded. 

 

“It’s fucking boiling.”

 

She thought it best to let the issue go and busied herself with trying to open her packet of jelly beans. The plastic package wouldn’t give. She pulled and tugged at it and still it wouldn’t open. He let out an irritated noise, reaching across the table to snag the bag of sweets out of her hand. Ripping it open with his teeth, he placed it back in front of her. She stared at him with her mouth open. 

 

“What?” he barked. 

 

“You’re very . . . direct,” she observed. 

 

“That a problem?” 

 

“No,” she answered honestly, surprising herself a bit. He was sharp of tongue but he had gotten the shoes down for her. And he had held the door for her. He wasn’t as rude as he wanted people to think he was, she thought. Pouring some of the jelly beans out on the table she offered the bag to him. When he frowned and shook his head, she dumped a dozen or so of them in front of him anyway. He scoffed, scooping them all up and shoving the entire fistful in his mouth at one time. She stared at him in horror.

 

“What?” he asked her again through a mouthful of gooey sugar.

 

“That’s . . . .that was disgusting,” she said in shock. “That had to have tasted horrid. Was it?”

 

“Try it,” he dared, grinning at her. She looked down at her neatly arranged piles of each separate color. She liked lemon the best, then orange, and then green apple. She never ate the licorice ones. Shrugging, she took one each of every color, including licorice, and tilted her head back, like he had done, to knock them back into her mouth. She chewed thoughtful for a total of five seconds before reaching for a napkin to spit the soggy wad out. 

 

“That was wretched!” she cried while screwing up he face in distaste. 

 

He laughed at her until he had to rub at his eyes. “Bloody hilarious,” he chuckled. 

 

It might have been an embarrassing situation but she found herself entranced by his laughter instead. His voice changed when he laughed. It was warm and smooth; rich, dark chocolate instead of gravel and ash. His phone on the table lit up. He grabbed at it, scrolling for moment before he stood up.

 

“I gotta run. Shift starts soon. This was. . . . alright,” he said pointing between the two of them. He pulled out his wallet, which had seen much better days and tossed a card onto the table.

 

“You want you could drop by some night. Tell them I sent you. They’ll let you right in.” He saluted her with his coffee. ”Thanks for the cuppa coffee, Red”

 

“My name’s Sansa!” she huffed at his backside, while he took off through the crowd. She wasn’t certain if he heard or not. He never turned around. Picking up the card on the table she read out loud, “Sandor Clegane. Security. Sound Technician.” That was an interesting combination, she mused. He had the build for security no doubt, but the other bit intrigued her. It had his number on it as well and the name of an establishment she wasn’t familiar with. She drew a finger along the card for a moment before pulling out her phone and typing in his number. Then she pocketed the card and made her way back onto the street. It was time to head home anyway.


	4. Roll Away Your Stone

They’d promised him fair wages, women and wine. They gave him wretchedness, sorrow and despair instead. The wages did little beyond covering the cost of a few bottles and a whore per week; each as sour as the other. They had promised a place where rage would flow outward to become something better. Glory they called it. The glory was a sham; a horrible lie that he caught onto quickly. Men were easy enough to plow down. It was slay or be slain. But the women and children? What was the sense in that? What glory was there in splattering the streets with the blood of innocents?

 

All the men around him seemed to be of two camps. Either they relished in what they did, to the point of monstrously immoral acts, or they hid behind titles, lands and bloodlines. The second camp could be just as cruel as the first; but the second lied about the pleasure they took while the first boasted of it. He found himself stuck somewhere in between. He never felt at home inside either one. He didn’t like discovering that, if we were forced to choose, he would prefer the first set of men over the second. Gregor belonged to that first group of men. And that made his hate and rage boil over. They were bottom feeding, vile, depraved men but at least they were honest. 

 

Honesty seemed important to him. He was himself a piece of low life shit but at least he never denied it. The Sers were all of them liars and that was somehow more evil than Gregor’s way of doing things. It was a sickening circle of confusion. So he soldiered on as best he could; neither Ser nor monster. 

 

He couldn’t stomach the idea of rape. There weren’t many who thought like him. Most men considered it their right after a hard won fight. He had tried, several times, but every time he held while they kicked and fought he would flash back to a little boy struggling inside of a world of flame, while some one massive forced him down and laughed and laughed. No, raping wasn’t in his nature. The memory of the fire stilled his hand as well when beatings came into play. Some men liked to use their fists on a girl to send her into bloody oblivion rather than fuck her raw. He still found no sense in it.

 

There had been a great part of him that had died that night long ago at the hands of his brother. He understood that much. What tore at him though was the fact that he had thought there might be something of him left; some small part that could be saved and coaxed back to life. He had put faith in the Lannisters that service and loyalty would grant him redemption. It had not. Bridges burnt behind him and the grace they had swayed him with turned out to be a self awareness that he was made up of nothing but darkness. Bits of him perished, hardened, became lost, or numbed. The small pleasures he took were dark; men’s blood, plenty of wine and whatever whore would have him. The pleasures of light eluded him. After many long years he stopped trying for them and let the darkness dominate him. It was easier that way. Struggling against it took too much energy, better to let it overtake him. Then he would know peace. 

 

But he didn’t. The two faced fucks he observed as a sworn shield made the world swirl crimson before him. He gave himself up to mocking those he hated but it gave him no pleasure in return. His life became nothing but a sick distortion of the hypocrisy he saw all around him. Verbally pissing on all their vows brought him nothing. It took more wine to allow his mind a very brief reprieve. Whores became less tolerable as they were also nothing but painted lies, just as false and insincere as Sers. Years of hate built up inside him. 

 

The girl was infuriating. Not only did she worship the cocks in gold armor but she treated him with the same honor. That couldn’t be allowed. Either he’d teach her to hate him or them but there was no way in all the Seven Hells he would allow her to put him in the same category as cunts like Trant. She learned. More so from them than him self. He would growl and she would shake, yet stay near him; sometimes touch him for fucks sake! The others beat her and she started to see. He watched, with an almost perverse sense of glee, for the moment her spirit would deflate and die just as his own had. Only it never did. Abuse was heaped upon her, from their hands and his tongue. She grew stronger and wiser but the core of her never changed. There was kindness, perhaps pity and, fuck it all, understanding behind her actions. There was never one whiff of hate or malice. 

 

It shamed him; a little girl a better man than he. It gutted him and sparked something inside him he thought impossible for him to feel. No matter how hard he tried to starve that spark, one glance from her, one word, would be enough to keep it fed for days. And then it started to grow! For the first time since the coals he found himself terror struck. Nothing he did could stop the damned thing from growing larger every day. He spent years of saved Tourney gold on reds of every kind, liquid and flesh and it did no good. His soul, what little tatters of it remained, thirsted only for her. If she could love him then he would have finally found something within himself to be proud of. To earn the affections of Sansa Stark meant he wasn’t hopeless after all. It was all insanity of course. A highborn lady loving a dog? It was fucking ludicrous. But sometimes the tone in her voice told him other wise. 

 

The night the fire swallowed the water he’d had enough. He’d seen the most hateful, dark side of men and women. He’d participated in the lowest of acts and the most violent of killings. None of it could have prepared him for the site of thousands of men all burning at once, their voices a collective scream of agony. No one deserved to die like that. 

 

He vomited three times during the battle, the smell of cooking flesh mixing with salt and fish to gag him. The sea’s breezes would waft the mixed odors over him and he’d wretch uncontrollably; the smell bringing back memories of weeks of tortuous pain, lying in a bed surrounded by that same scent. He lost a horse and nearly his head several times. There was a call for retreat to try and rally the men’s strength. There would be no more fighting out of him. He was shaking, splatters of vomit still clinging to his hair. He was caked in blood and earth. And what for? So he could continue to die piece by piece instead of all at once? So the Lannisters could gain more wealth and power off the sweat from his brow and the blood from his body? So that men could burn while he stood safe? 

 

Fuck all of it. He was finished. He told them as much while gulping down wine. If he’d had any strength left he would have pulled out his cock to piss on their boots. He put his foot down, firmly settling a stake into the ground of his own independence. He’d finally figured it out. No one was going to give him what he sought; not the Lannisters, not fucking, fighting or drinking. The only place he could find that which he had spent his entire life seeking was within him self. If he didn’t have the courage to break his chains he didn’t deserve to be free of them in the first place. The Imp took over, allowing him to slip off into the Keep. He was still a liar though. He wasn’t the single object able to grant him peace. There was one other that could give him all he needed. He was certain of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually been thinking on this song for weeks. This one was tough. Marcus Mumford likes to switch perspectives during a song and sometimes it's hard to follow when trying to keep it from one point of view in my little stories. But this one ended up becoming very interesting. The "you" that is referred to in the song I ended up seeing as the Lannisters.


	5. White Blank Page

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First . . . this one plugs into Gravedigger’s Battle if you know where to look. A little bit of book, a little bit of show . . . bam. 
> 
> White Blank Page is my favorite song of all time. I never had a favorite until I heard this song. I have always, ALWAYS interpreted this song as the first verse is the singer addressing him/herself. After that, from the chorus until the end of the song, they are addressing the “lover” figure. I know a lot of people like to think of it as the first verse is addressing the person that is now with the one the singer loves. I just never saw it that way. I always thought the first verse was the singer asking questions of them self. So it fits in perfectly for me on Sandor’s thoughts while he waits for Sansa during the battle of the Blackwater. Seriously, what more perfect backdrop could there be?
> 
> Here’s my favorite version.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_Od0PJp6GI
> 
> And yeah, I’m forcing the lyrics down your throat on this one. 
> 
> Can you lie next to her  
> And give her your heart, your heart  
> As well as your body  
> And can you lie next to her  
> And confess your love, your love  
> As well as your folly  
> And can you kneel before the king  
> And say I'm clean, I'm clean
> 
> [Chorus]  
> Tell me now, where was my fault  
> In loving you with my whole heart  
> Oh tell me now, where was my fault  
> In loving you with my whole heart
> 
> A white blank page and a swelling rage, rage  
> You did not think when you sent me to the brink, to the brink  
> You desired my attention but denied my affections, my affections
> 
> [Chorus]
> 
> Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life  
> Lead me to the truth and I will follow you with my whole life

There’d been a whore once. Back when he was still green; not quite a man, though he’d done everything else at that point a man might do. The warmth of blood on his hands, and not a woman’s touch, was the first heat he had known. He had been gangly for a time as he grew. Gregor got all the strength right from the womb it seemed. He had to wait for his. Sometimes he thought perhaps Gregor had taken it all for himself, leaving him with nothing but a scrawny body and a burnt face, a pathetic second son indeed. He grew taller before he acquired any noticeable bulk. At thirteen he went from barely able to reach his father’s height to having to stoop when entering a room. At fourteen, muscle started to cover his bones at an alarming pace. He was ecstatic. By the time he had reached his fifteenth name day he finally had something he was able to brag about. Paired with his vicious temper, his new found power gave him a reputation worthy of the name Gregor had bestowed upon him. 

He wasn’t sure who exactly ordered the whore. All he could remember was there had been a skirmish, he had fought well and some of the men above him had decided, in the drunken revels after, that he looked and acted enough like a man to have a chance at a woman. They shoved his half drunken arse into a tent and told him not to come out till morning. They slapped at his back, laughing and wishing him luck. Stumbling in the dark tent, he made out a small figure on a weathered cot in front of him. The air smelled sweet, like honey and lavender. A woman’s voice filled the tent, calling him “Ser” and asking him what his pleasure was. He didn’t know. There was still a skin of wine in his hands and he pulled from it deeply, hoping it might tell him what the proper response was. She seemed to sense what was happening. 

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Old enough,” he told her, his voice coming out strangely high pitched. 

“You’re big,” she stated, lifting herself from the rickety bed and taking a few steps towards him. 

“Aye,” he agreed. 

“Let’s see how big,” she breathed, running her hands down over his cock still encased within his breeches. It didn’t take long for her to get an eager response. She giggled and told him she approved. He tried hard not to moan but couldn’t help himself. He’d never felt any other hand there besides his own. It was entirely new, the feel of someone else on him. She slipped her hand down between skin and linen and he whimpered when he felt her fingers encircle him. 

“Mmmmm,” she hummed at him thoughtfully. “Don’t spill on me yet greenling, there’s more.” He gasped when she removed her hand from him. Of course he understood there was more to it than that but, fuck, he felt ready to burst now. She drew him back towards the cot, looked from him to the bed, tsked, and grabbed at the furs covering it. She threw them onto the ground.

“It will be easier this way,” she told him. He didn’t give a damn about where she tossed the blankets. She could have shoved them up Gregor’s arse for all he cared; he didn’t need furs at that point, just something solid to lay her down on. In the dark he could make out her shape but there were no details. He wanted to see what the woman looked like. She was disrobing and he was desperate to get a good look at what would soon be his. Lighting the oil lamp on the small table, he turned to face her. And that had been a terrible mistake. She shrieked and hid her face. He felt his stomach plummet, while his cock shriveled. 

“They didn’t tell you,” he rasped, shame holding him tight. She shook, half naked and bravely moved her hands from her face. 

“They did,” she whispered, lowering her eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry. Where do you want me to lie?” 

He felt as if he might cry. From joy or sadness, he wasn’t sure, but he hated either one. Approaching her, he tried to pull her dress off of her. She let him but trembled and wouldn’t look at him. Milky white, soft flesh was within his grasp. He kneaded at her breasts with his dark, calloused hands but got no reaction from her. He tried to kiss her and she turned her head so all he caught was her jaw. Her fingers started to work at the buttons of his breeches but he felt none of the spark from her that she had when they were both covered in shadows. There was absolutely no response from his cock. He knew it was false love she was giving him but it had seemed real enough a few minutes ago. Now that his face was bared to her the blatant lie she was upholding was also exposed. 

“Do you want the light out?” he barked. He couldn’t go through with it. Mad as he was to feel a woman, he couldn’t plunge himself into someone who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. If darkness was what it took to have the illusion back he’d give it to her. He could do without seeing her. He didn’t want to see her anymore. She’d reminded him how loathsome he was and it angered him. He only wanted to feel now. She nodded her head meekly and apologized again. He blew the lamp out, waiting for her to take over once again. 

The absence of light gave her courage, and there on a pile of furs on the ground, he lost himself inside a woman for the first time. She rode him the first time around, then rolled him over and showed him how to take the reins himself. There was pleasure to it. Blinding, intense spasms took him again and again that night but between their tumbles he kept seeing her face within his mind, frozen in terror by the light of a lamp. Each time he had a woman after, at some point in their rutting, he would see that first one’s horrified face. 

For some reason the sweet smelling, black haired whore was all he could think of, staring down at the Little Bird’s empty bed. He drank from the wine skin in his hand as he had learned to do years ago. The bloody thing was silent as ever, never giving up any answers. There was another sweating skin on the table beside her bed for when the one in his hands gave out. It was his fourth now he drank from. Or was it his fifth? Didn’t really matter anymore, he thought, swaying a bit. He looked at the bed, at once furious and miserable. He’d dragged her out of that bed enough times by order of the cunt King, but he would never lower her onto it. But he could, a sinister voice in his head told him. If he could make up his mind one way or the other, if he could decide if he were monster or Ser then he could either take or court. Except there was no time left for courting, as if he had even the slightest idea of how to go about that buggering mess. He’d have to flee long before he could try and make her see him. And the other choice? He drank more wine and cursed at every God he knew of. He hated the whole fucking lot of them for giving him the sight to see the monsters but not the appetite to join them fully. 

If he hadn’t been so damned ugly, if he hadn’t had years of hate built up under him, if he had only had more time maybe he could have learned to be what it was she wanted. Or she could have found something inside him worth having. He could have had her body and her heart. It hit him hard that he wanted the latter far more than the former. But she would never, never give him that, so he stuck to fantasizing about what it would be like to bed her instead. He squinted at her pillows, trying to see her red hair fanned out across them, loose curls spiraling down her body to barely cover her breasts. He would lower himself onto her, confessing his desires and she would say sweet words of devotion back at him while he wept into her belly, her hands trailing through his hair while she told him he wasn’t a beast- and when the fuck had dreams of bedding a young woman turned into visions of him weeping? He sucked down the last of the wine in his hand and reached for the skin on the table. He paced the floor furiously. He didn’t need this! This feeling; an ache so solid he truly could sense it. If he had a knife that could dig deep enough he’d carve it out but he doubted such an object existed. All he would manage to do would be to scrape out his own heart. He’d leave it at her fucking feet and maybe, finally, be rid of her and the feeling. 

 

His eyes scanned wildly around the room, her trinkets illuminated by the green glow of fire. He shuddered. The bloody fire still raged on outside. His face felt like it had been set aflame all over again. He rocked on his feet, his eyes taking in the sight of dolls, pots of solid oil perfume, colored glass bottles, and silky stitched handkerchiefs. The one on her dresser looked out of place. It wasn’t delicate and colorful like the others. He took a step closer and his breath caught in his throat. It was tattered and worn; not a handkerchief at all, but a piece of cloth torn in the rough shape of one. It had old blood stains on it. His heart beat madly in his chest. He had told her to keep it but he never thought she actually would. And it sat on her dresser, where she could see it, touch it, every day. What did it mean? He was a fucking coward. He could take on dozens of men at a time while a little girl left him scared shitless. His fingers reached out for it, trembling, and he shoved the thing in his pocket before he could change his mind. If it was out of sight he didn’t have to think about what it might mean. 

But the seed had been planted and started to grow. She could have gotten rid of the scrap; lost it, burned it, buried it, tossed it on the midden heap and forgotten all about it. But she didn’t. She’d kept it. She put it plain sight where she would come across it every day. And, the Gods damn them both, he didn’t know what it meant. He needed more time. He knew the saved token meant something. Something of importance. Sometimes her chin stuck out when she spoke to him. Sometimes her eyes flashed when they held his own. Sometimes she forgot to shake when he was near. It all meant something, something, something his mind couldn’t grasp. 

Falling into a large chair it came to him. He didn’t have to leave the city alone! She could come with him. Her safety would be assured with him as her escort. Brute strength would keep her near him until his mind could figure out what the something was. Time was what he needed and if he could convince her to come with him he’d have it. Laughter started to take him though when he thought of the two of them on the road; the highborn Little Bird ankle deep in mud and horse shit, soaked by rain and hungry. His body shook with dark laughter. She wouldn’t come. He’d offer, he wouldn’t be about to stop himself, but he knew deep down in his blackened heart she wouldn’t come. 

Manic, wine fueled laughter turned into a hiccup and tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. He swiped at them angrily. She wouldn’t come. The fact was enough to sober a man, he thought, taking down more red to remedy the issue. All he’d ever done, nearly from the start, was love her. Fucking love. It was a wretched feeling. For once in his life he’d let something other than hate, lust or fury have him and what thanks did he get? Nothing but more pain than he felt able to bare. He deserved something else by now didn’t he? He was a man long grown and not one bit of light had ever touched him. She was made of nothing but light and he wanted just one ray of it to call his own. It wasn’t too much to ask for was it?

There was a quill and textured, cream paper on the table next to him. He’d fucking show her. He’d tell her every awful thing she’d made him feel. She thought him hateful? His letter would let her know how cruel she’d been to him as well. She accepted protection from him but shuddered when he gave her the faintest glimpse of affection, causing him to drink and whore in order to try and purge her from his mind. He’d write it all down clear as day for her innocent blue eyes to read and feel guilty over. Then she could feel inferior as well! Taking up the quill, he tried for the ink well, missed, growled, and tried again. He was determined, ready to scrawl out angry sentences of hate and love. The pen hovered above the white blank page and the words wouldn’t come. He waited. Nothing. He tore through memories in his mind, trying to grab onto one he could start with. But all he could see were eyes full of kindness and hair made of fire. All he could feel was longing; his age old friend rage, whispering in his ear that he was still a craven mongrel. A single drop of ink fell, marking the pristine page with a horrible stain. He wasn’t drunk enough not to catch the symbolism in that. In the end his wine numbed fingers scratched out the only thing he could give her. A last promise that she could collect at any time, should their paths cross again; advice he’d given her before but still held true. He didn’t bother signing it. She would know whom it was from. Folding the note, he put it back on her dresser, where the borrowed bit of cloth had lain and went back to staring at her bed. 

“A dog will die for you but never lie to you”


	6. I Gave You All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned into some sort of modern day AU Blackwater scene. I think it could tie directly into Winter Winds in this challenge. Maybe one day I'll connect them.
> 
> I think this song is what's running through Sandor's head while he's in the coat room.

The unsettling feeling that took her when Sandor stormed off had turned into a terrible, gut twisting nervousness. The warm, half bottle of Stella in her hand had long ago lost its label, picked clean off by her fidgeting fingers. She’d chewed all her fingernails down to the quick. So much for growing them out, Sansa thought to herself. Not that it really mattered. Joffrey was the one who liked long nails and she had finally told that little shit to stay away from her. Sandor was the one who looked at her neatly manicured nails and scoffed, telling her she didn’t need to go to so much trouble for men. He never expanded on the thought but she now realized he had been speaking about himself alone. He had always been speaking about himself and she’d been too dim to figure it out until recently.

 

After her break up with Joff she had sought out Sandor. She thought the news would have pleased him. He hardly ever seemed truly happy and she had wanted to see him smile while she told him how wrong she had been. But he had raged like always, shoving her out of his path, and then catching her hand when she lost her balance, before giving her a disgusted look and leaving her. The last she had seen of him was his backside as he pushed through the crowd, a bottle of Jack in his tightly clenched fist. She felt wretched. He was only there because she asked him to support her and she’d somehow ruined the evening for him with her confession.

 

She kept close to Bronn after that. Her appearance was expected and it was still early on in the evening. Her work was on display after all. There were too many of Joff’s lackeys about and if she couldn’t feel safe near Sandor’s side, Bronn was the next obvious choice.

 

“Let ‘im cool off for a bit, love,” Bronn had told her. “He’s not right up in the head sometimes. Not that any of us are,” he laughed. “You know. He doesn’t mean to be such a shit. He’ll feel sorry for it later. Good on you for dropping the twat. Our dog’s mad for you.”

 

So she stood, back to back, with one of Sandor’s only friends; probably his single true one besides her self.  Scanning the crowd, she looked for Sandor over and over again only to be disappointed. Behind her, Bronn was chatting up two girls. Someone pushed by her, an irritated looking couple and she heard them whispering harshly to one of the black suits Joff had hired for the evening.

 

“. . .can’t get our things,” she heard the man saying. “The door’s locked and there’s some guy spouting off at the mouth inside. He won’t open it. He keeps yelling filth at my wife.”

 

Oh god, she thought, tapping on Bronn’s shoulder. “I think he’s in the coat room,” she whispered into his ear. “Can you keep them busy for a minute?” she asked pointing to the prim looking couple.

 

“Right, careful with ‘im. You know he bites worse when he’s in his cups,” Bronn warned her, turning his attention to the couple and the suit. “Gentlemen. Lady,” he started, nodding and winking to the short, brunette half of the couple. “No need to make a scene at such a lovely party, eh? His bird’s gonna sort it all out. Give ‘er a tick and . . .”

 

Sansa didn’t catch the rest of Bronn’s speech as she ducked through the crowd, setting her drink on a table. She hadn’t had a sip of it in hours anyway. It was more for show than actual pleasure. Her stomach hadn’t been up for alcohol since she’d upset Sandor and she was grateful for her clear head now. She had some time to, hopefully, get Sandor to open the door while Bronn worked his usual charm. If Sandor had finished off that bottle she’d seen earlier in his hands there was a definite chance for a scene, and possibly much more, to occur. Her stomach rolled with anxiety. There was still much she had to understand about Sandor but she was getting better at it. If she was near he wouldn’t go violent on them all. He might cuss and scream and holler but he wouldn’t add fists. If she could stay near him and get him outside, maybe home, he could destroy all he wished without anyone else getting involved.

 

The coat room door was, indeed, shut and locked when she tried the knob.

 

“Fuck off!” came his voice from inside the room. She sighed. He was a mess. An absolute mess and sometimes she wondered why her heart had chosen him. But it had. There was no denying it any longer. She looked at him and felt it stop. He talked with  her and it speed up. Her heart spoke to her more loudly and more often when in his presence than it had ever done so before in her life. He was a wreck but he wasn’t unsalvageable.

 

“Sandor,” she tried, knocking lightly on the door. “Open up. Please. Let’s go somewhere else. You and I alright? Wherever you want to go.”

 

“Red?” he asked. She bit her lip. He sounded bewildered.

 

“Yes, it’s me. May I come in?” It was better to ask and appeal than coerce and control.

 

“Go away,” he moaned. “Fly away little bird. Let me be.”

 

There was something different. He wasn’t kicking at the door, spitting out obscenities. He sounded weak and broken. It made her worry. It wasn’t like him. Reaching up into her hair she found two bobby pins and twisted them straight. Picking at the lock she soon heard a click and turned the knob of the now opened door. Bless you, Arya, she silently thanked her more resourceful sister.

 

 

He was sitting propped up against the back wall. There was, as she had suspected, an empty bottle in front of him and, not entirely surprisingly, another two thirds full one in his hands. His hair was mussed, as if he’d been pulling at it. He looked up at her with red rimmed, suspiciously wet eyes.

 

“The fuck you doing, Red?” he sighed, no more fight left in him. It was completely throwing her off. She’d never seen this side of him before; quiet, forlorn and sad. Kneeling down close to him she let her frilly skirts pool on the floor around her.

 

“I said I loved you. I meant it. I’m not going to let you sit here on a cold floor all night.”

 

He laughed but there was no joy behind it. It was a mirthless, dark chuckle. “Little girl, you have no idea what you’re getting into,” he said, shaking his head and swigging from the bottle of amber.

 

“Do you want me to go?” she challenged. “Tell me to leave you alone and I will. Tell me to go away and never come back.”  He glared at her but she saw his chin tremble ever so slightly. He said nothing; only took another pull from the bottle. She watched the level of the liquor go down farther. This needed to stop. He was looking for his answers in the wrong place. She had them if he would ask.

 

“Are you going to share any of that?” she tried, pointing at the bottle. He snorted and passed it to her, his eyes lighting up with eagerness. Taking a small sip, to buy time, she instantly sputtered and coughed while he roared with laughter. Well, at least she had gotten him to smile somehow, she thought. There was a knock at the open door. Turning her head, she saw Jaime’s blonde spikes.

 

“Knock, knock,” he called. “Bronn said you might need a hand. The suits are getting edgy.”

 

“Oh, thank God!” she yelped, standing in a hurry. Sandor reached out for the bottle still in her hands but she raised it up over her head. There was no way for him to grab it while he remained seated. “Let it alone. You’ve had plenty.”

 

“I say when I’ve had enough!” he bellowed, trying to stand. He made it halfway before he lost his footing and sat back down. “Fuck!”

 

Walking to Jaime, she pressed the bottle into his hands. “Get rid of it,” she beseeched. “Pour it down the sink.”

 

“Right,” Jaime agreed. “What’s gotten into him?”

 

“I broke things off with Joff. I’m sure you heard.” The blonde nodded his head. “I told Sandor about it. I . . .I told him I loved him. He told me I was stupid little girl and well. . .” she trailed off, waving a hand up and down at Sandor who now had his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling. He had heard her though.  

 

“She is!” Sandor shouted, his usual gruffness back now that they had company. “She’s a stupid little girl full of stupid fucking romances and I hate her!”

 

“Shut up, ya’ drunk bastard,” Jamie hollered back. “Christ, you’re like a five year old with a fistful of pigtail. You don’t hate her. No one thinks that’s true. Sober up and get yer head straight.” The blonde gave Sandor a pitying look and turned his attention back to Sansa. “I don’t know why you bother with him but you’re the best shot he’s got at something. You want me to call for a car? You need help getting him out?”

 

 

She wanted to politely refuse but she remembered Sandor’s attempt to stand on his own. She might be able to support him but there was no way she could get him up off the ground without assistance.

 

  
“Yes, please,” she said gratefully. Jaime cared for Sandor in his own way whether Sandor wanted to acknowledge it or not.

 

Jaime nodded at her. “Back in two shakes.”

 

 

……………………….

 

 

At his door he leaned into the concrete wall, fumbling at the edge of his pocket, his fingers clumsy from alcohol and his jeans too skinny. They’d be here all night if she left it to him. Gathering up some courage she batted his hand away and shoved her own hand down into his pocket. She fished around easily with her small hand, praying she wouldn’t find something other than keys and wasn’t successful. He dressed to the left then. Wonderful, she snorted to herself, this was not the way she had wanted to have a first grab at his cock. He sucked in a loud breath through his teeth and slammed a palm into the cold concrete.

 

“Fucks sake, Sansa,” he moaned into the wall, sending shivers down her spine. Finally her hand wrapped around metal!

 

“Sorry,” she squeaked, removing her hand suddenly. Her fingers shook as she tried for the lock. This was a horrible, terrible, wonderful, thrilling idea of hers, getting him settled all on her own. The door clicked open and she let him lean on her shoulder again while they entered his apartment. She’d never been inside before. She’d met him here but had never gone across the threshold. It made her feel daring. Flicking on some lights, she surveyed their surroundings while he protested loudly and covered his eyes.

 

It was cleaner than she had expected. Much cleaner. Tidy and organized. She had thought there would be a chaos inside to match his personality but it wasn’t so. It was neater than her own rooms! No odds and ends lying about, no dirty dishes in the sink. Everything gleamed from what she could see. The thought struck her that she knew very little about the man that had captured her heart. It made her sad. She hadn’t been doing a very good job at befriending him. Not really. She vowed to do better.

 

“Where’s your bedroom?” she asked. He pointed down a hallway to the left.

 

“You going to sing me to sleep little bird?” he rasped. She didn’t know if he was serious or not. Her first instinct was to think he was mocking her but his tone was back to being low and gentle; almost scared. It was unbelievable.   

 

“If you like,” she told him softly. She’d gotten him to the bed and he was shaking with his harsh, joyless laughter again. Tugging at his boots she managed to get them off of him, dropping them to the floor. She scooted up on the bed and smoothed his hair. He went silent and stone still immediately.

 

“Try to rest,” she soothed. “I’ll stay on the sofa alright? Shout if you need me.”

 

Standing, she turned but yelped in shocked surprise when an arm, swift as a trap gripped her around the waist and pulled her back onto the mattress. He was so strong! Was this the same man that had staggered down a hallway minutes earlier? He had her pinned against him, pressing his chest and hips to her back. She could feel him; a bar of iron trying to thrust into the soft flesh of her arse.

 

“You said you’d sing,” he growled. There was no moisture left in her mouth to make any sound. She couldn’t protest or agree with him. There was a deep sinking feeling in her stomach when she realized the song her wanted from her. She’d give it, willingly, if he would let her.

 

“I could take it from you, stupid little girl. What’d you think would happen coming here? I could fuck you till you screamed,” he hissed in her ear. Then he bit her! She gasped. She couldn’t help it. She wanted him as well but it was so sudden. Or was it? They’d been dancing around each other since day one. One of his hands had traveled up to cup at her breasts, pinching her through the fabric of her dress. He pushed his length into her arse cheeks again, calling out his own pleasure.

 

“I could put my hand ‘round your throat, and choke a song out of you. A pretty little death rattle eh?” he said in a sinister tone, slipping the hand at her breast up to her neck and applying pressure. “Stupid fucking girl. I could do it. Done it before. You wouldn’t be the first.”

 

Her heart slammed in her chest. He wouldn’t. She knew beyond all doubt he wouldn’t but it was frightening to hear him talk that way. He’d hinted at killing before. She didn’t know details but she believed him. And that was key; to have faith and belief in him no matter what darkness he might reveal. She’d been witness to others rebuking his claims and it angered him like nothing else. It was alright to correct him if he tumbled into self hatred or doubt. Gentle words could coax him away from those thoughts. But when he spoke of his past, of deeds he had done, of what he was still capable of, it was best to agree, never deny. He was Sandor Clegane past, present and future and nothing else. That’s what he wanted; someone to notice and stand by him.

 

She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to work. “I know,” she told him simply. “I’ll sing for you. You don’t have to make me.”

 

The hand at her throat stilled, loosened and then trembled. She could feel his face at the nape of her neck, rubbing and trying to bury himself into her skin while he clutched at the front of her skirts.

 

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he choked. “I’d never hurt you. I’d take care of you.” There was a force inside her. A solid ball of hurt and empathy for the man. She reached for the hand near her core, squeezing it tight.

 

“I know,” she repeated. His breath shuddered onto her neck, sending goose bumps down her arms. There was wetness on her skin and strange noises coming from his throat. Her own eyes filled with water. He wouldn’t let her turn and face him. She tried and he held her in place. So she stayed still, letting him find what comfort he could on his own. It took a long time for him push himself away from her. She felt him picking at the buttons on the back of her dress; a nervous habit, she knew, not an attempt to undress her. Rolling over she took his hands in hers, kissing the hair on his knuckles.

 

“Don’t go,” he pleaded.

 

“Never,” she promised.

 

 

 

 


	7. Little Lion Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious WARNING ahead. Rape and torture. If you can't stomach it skip this one. Though I will hint that Sandor is trying his best in a very bad situation. 
> 
> I see this as taking place somewhere in his late teens. Still under Gregor's shadow and fist. His father just recently dead. The Lannisters taking note of him and pushing him to become a Knight and Sworn Shield. 
> 
> I feel the song is the result of Sandor's actions here. It's his thoughts for years to come.

“Found us a nest!” Gregor shouted from up above them. He turned his head, along with Miller, to see what Gregor was on about.

 

His older brother descended the stairs of the loft two at a time, three girls grasped within his hands by the hair. All three girls were crying, shouting out in pain and trying to free their tresses from Gregor’s fingers. It would do them no good. He knew better than most. Once Gregor wanted to move a person they moved, no matter what, and didn’t stop until he said so. The two in front, his brother kicked at to make them advance. Each seemed near the age of fifteen, just barely turned women. Both had dark hair. Not black like his; theirs was a brown found so deep in the earth one usually didn’t see it unless there was a grave to be dug. There had been braids at some point, pinning their hair into place but now it was in ruins, pulled and twisted savagely in Gregor’s hands. The one being dragged behind was smaller. Twelve, maybe thirteen, with hair that leaned more towards blonde than brown. She wailed while trying to get her footing. Gregor was moving too fast and with too much force for her to keep up. She was being dragged, screaming, while Gregor paid her no mind.

 

“Got one for you, little brother. Think you can keep it up to make a woman out of this one? You man enough to really fuck yet?” Gregor sneered at him, throwing the near blonde at his feet. The girl stayed on the floor, weeping into his boots and running her fingers across her scalp. He could see patches where hair was missing and blood was beginning to seep through.

 

His stomach threatened to empty itself. This was not a part of soldiering he could handle. It wasn’t a new concept to him. He knew other man partook but the whole idea had never settled right inside him. He’d tried before, once. He’d given it his best effort; stiff and swollen he’d rubbed his cock against an entrance dry as parchment and looked into eyes that had fogged over with sheer terror. Glancing down onto her chest and arms he’d seen his own hands pinning her, and suddenly all he could think of was hands on his own chest and arms while something sacred had been taken from him. The response to his cock was swift. Any blood that had been raised drained away, while he tucked himself back into his breeches and stumbled from the tiny room. He never knew what had happened to that one.

 

After that he’d managed to avoid the situation all together. Most of the men didn’t even notice. Some gave him what seemed like a knowing, world weary look when they walked together past small little houses and shacks, grunts and woman’s shrieks pouring out into the streets to fill their ears. The small band of men chose to spend their time after a fight together, drinking or whoring if there were slags available. It seemed a different type of rape but at least everyone was in agreement over the terms and conditions. And then there were the very few men, like his brother, who thought there must be something wrong with him in mind or body. Ball-less, runt, eunuch, and lesser lion, a stab at both his manhood and his house duty, became new names spat at him. He beat every one of them to the brink of death except for Gregor. Gregor made him eat dirt time and time again.

  

And now he found him self somehow trapped in a house with his cunt of a brother, a lackey who smelled of piss and three sobbing maidens. Gregor held both the dark haired girls up near his face, trying to decide which he wanted. They all knew better than to argue with whom he paired together. The girl’s toes skimmed the dirt floor beneath them as their arms flailed usually in the air. The eldest spat in Gregor’s face. Gregor gave her an evil grin and used her sister’s hair to wipe at his face.

 

“You need a lesson in courtesy, lass,” Gergor laughed. It was a terrible sound, full of dark promises.  The middle sister was tossed to Miller. With his hand now free, Gregor belted the older one across the face. Blood flew from her mouth to hit him across the cheek. This was going to end in more than just a rape, he realized. None of the girls were going to come out of the next hour alive. The little one at his feet continued on moaning and rocking on the floor.

 

Miller howled in triumph, slamming his prize down on a table and immediately digging through her skirts. The middle one fought, trying to claw at Miller’s face. All it got her was a blow to the stomach and her skull knocked harshly on the wood beneath her. Dazed, she groaned and went still as blood began to gather underneath her head. The only mercy in it was that Miller was known to be quick to fire and he would more than likely bleed her out when it was done. The rat faced, smelly man liked to strangle sometimes, but not often. Gergor was the true monster. Gregor liked to take his time. The Mountain had his claim up against a wall, using his knife to torment the girl. His brother would place it near her eye and back off, then move it to her throat, wait for her to sob and then remove the tip. Gregor glanced his way.

 

“You gonna do something, dog, or you saving her for me?”

 

That moved him. If he didn’t do something Gregor most certainly would and that fate would be far worse than anything he would do to the girl. His first thought had been to turn on his heel and leave but the pitiful lump on the floor would then be left to watch her sister’s succumb and die before her. So he hefted her up, under her knees and shoulders. She looked at him with hope. He gave her none as he dropped her down in a corner, as far from Gregor as he could mange in the cramped space.

 

His second thought had been to walk right out of the room with her. But Gregor wouldn’t have fallen for that. His brother wasn’t nearly as stupid as some thought he was. That scenario would have ended with the eldest’s brains dashed in quickly while Gregor tore the youngest from his arms. If he fought, he’d more than likely take a beating and the girl would lose. If he managed to win, and set the girl free within the Northern territory, she’d starve, freeze or be picked up by someone far worse than him on the road. He had little supplies he could offer her. Enough to see her through a day or two if wolves or men didn’t have at her first. The girl was going to die no matter what he did.

 

He twisted the child’s frame around so he could keep an eye on the other men. Miller wheezed like a birthing sow into the limp body of the middle girl.  Gregor was breaking the eldest’s fingers one by one. The girl was so far gone in pain that all she did was whimper and shake, like a poisoned animal in its death throws. There was a large stain of wetness at her front of her dress. She’d soiled herself and he knew Gregor wouldn’t give a damn. His brother would slam his cock into anything, living, dead, wounded, bleeding, it never mattered. 

 

The little one beneath his loins didn’t fight; only quivered and whispered “please” over and over again at him. Her eyes were large, knowledge creeping into them, like a doe, suddenly finding itself dying with an arrow through the heart. Shoving her legs apart, he tugged at the buttons of his breeches. He was limp as a highborn’s handshake but he pushed himself to her heat anyway. Her small clothes stayed over her core while he continued on with the ruse. She looked at him with hopeful eyes again and he twisted his face into a grimace; one that he knew would set his scars into a terrifying mask. The girl yelped and started to cry. That was good. Gregor wouldn’t interfere if he heard weeping. Finally, he saw Gregor lift the older one’s skirts. His brother rutted like a bull against the wall. And that was when he had the opportunity to pull his knife from its sheath. It was all the mercy he had to give. She was already dead. Her eyes went wider in panic as she started to scream and he clamped his hand down over her lips.

 

He mouthed that he was sorry. He was. Seven Hells weren’t going to be enough for him.  Tears came to his eyes as he drew his knife across her throat. Blood poured over his wrist, down into the dust to turn her blonde hair red. He held her eyes and watched as life turned to death. Wiping her blood off of his knife onto his own clothes, he stood, cupping at his groin. Gregor looked his way when he got up.

 

“The fuck happened?” Gregor shouted, taking note of the spreading pool of blood.

 

“Bitch kicked her heel in me,” he barked. “Fucking cunt!” He spat near the dead girl’s head. He didn’t have to fake the flushed redness of his face or the wetness in his eyes. His brother stared hard at him and he willed the man to accept his demeanor as anger not sorrow.

 

“Doesn’t need to be living to get what you want. Makes it easier,” Gregor said harshly, pumping into the lifeless girl he had pinned to the wall. She cried out softly, barely any light left in her and Gregor punched her hard in the ribs. Miller squealed on top of his girl, collapsing onto her while clasping a dirty hand around her throat.

 

“Fuck her yourself!” he hollered, turning from the vulgar display in front of him. He marched from the room, knowing Gregor wouldn’t follow. Not with his cock still stuck up in a girl. The Lannisters pushed him for Knighthood. His brother was a Knight. His brother, who burned little boys and murdered all. Tortured young girls and raped warm corpses. He wasn’t his brother and he’d tell the whole world to bugger off before he ever became a Knight. That night, after many bottles of wine, he had to take to the woods. Behind a massive tree he sank to his knees, thinking of doe eyes and biting at the heel of his hand to quiet his sobs.

 

 


	8. Timshel

It started with the youngest. Too much time spent among the small children of Winterfell’s growing numbers had left their boy of three name days coughing and achy. Osha and Sansa did their best to comfort the young one but two days later there was fever present and a red rash that spread like wildfire on his little chest. The two oldest boys were next to succumb to the hellish fever and blistering rash. Sansa and he had only four children, three boys and one girl. It was hard for him to watch most of his children suffering through pain.

 

Sansa tried to soothe him. It was a child hood illness, she explained to him. She, Arya and Jon had gone through the same thing. It was uncomfortable, yes, but not a horrible suffrage as he imagined and the children would bounce back, bright as ever in a week or so.

 

The Maester and Sam kept a close eye on them. They made compresses for their chests and gave them special, herbal teas to drink. The two older boys, six and seven name days, made it through faster than their younger brother. And just when all seemed well, Fira, their precious nestling of four, started to cough. She was immediately placed in a sick bed; the same treatments that were given to her siblings were heaped upon her. But, where the boys showed improvement after five or so days, Fira seemed to slip farther into the fever. Her entire body and face was red as an apple and she complained of it itching terribly. Sores broke out and bled and he was advised to stop visiting her room. He had never taken with the strange fever as a lad and couldn’t remember Gregor or his sister bearing the illness either. It was rare for an adult to catch the disease, but not unheard of, he was told. It was best that he keep away from the girl, least he end up with it as well. Those who had already had the fever and rash were less likely to go through another round and so they were allowed to tend to the girl. Sansa, Gilly and the Maester all kept vigil. Osha divided her time between running supplies to the young girl’s room and tending to the boys. Jon visited when he was able to try and lift the girl’s spirits. Sam, who could not recall having ever suffered the fever, sat quiet company with him for hours outside Fira’s door, knowing better than to speak.

 

He could hear Fira cough and cry through the door while Sansa sang to her. It pained him greatly. He had always had a soft spot for his only girl, his second Little Bird. A week went by and her condition did not improve. She grew listless, would barely eat, and the cough had settled deep in her lungs. Sansa and Gilly spent nearly all of their time by the girl’s side. Neither one of them would give him any details; only forced smiles or words of hope he knew they believed less and less with each passing day. Jon would leave the room and look at him blankly. Only Osha, in her rough wilding way, took him aside each day and gave him point blank descriptions. It was better that he know, she told him. The girl was fading fast. The sores on her body had taken over her mouth making food and drink near impossible to take in. The cough in her chest was a rattle and the Maester was fearful his healing ways were not going to be enough. He went numb at her words.

 

By the tenth night, Fira entered a sleep so deep no one could wake her. Sansa no longer slept in their bed, instead, choosing to nap in a large chair or cot by Fira’s pallet. He turned to stone. Osha forced him to eat. Sam took to the libraries, searching every obscure tome he could find, hoping to stumble upon anything useful. Jon tried his best to reassure him.

 

“Sansa’s just like the Lady Stark before her. Sitting up all night beside Bran. Fira will wake just as he did. You’ll see,” Jon said.  

 

But he knew when he was being lied to. He was a soldier, same as Jon, and could read through the wrinkled brow and the waver in the young man’s voice with ease. He wasn’t deaf; he could hear Sansa’s crying through the door. He wasn’t blind; he could see his little girl’s pale, frail form through the crack in the door whenever someone entered or exited the room. On the twelfth night Osha slipped out of the room, tears in her eyes.

 

“You’d best be sitting with her m’lord, if that is your wish,” the wilding told him, voice quivering like he’d never heard before. Osha was near as unbreakable as he. “She’s not likely to make it to morning.”

 

The Maester warned against it but he told the man he could go bugger himself. Sam pulled a weeping Gilly from the room so that he and Sansa could sit with their treasure as a family in peace. Jon came after an hour or so, kissed the young one on the forehead and hugged Sansa. She wailed in her half brother’s arms and he grew angry over the fact that she had yet to do so in his. Wasn’t he the one she should find solace in at this time? His jaw clenched in fury at the world once again. If the Gods had any mercy they would see fit to give him the fever as well so that he could lay in the tombs with his daughter. It wasn’t right. He should have been the one to usher her into the afterlife and not the other way around.

 

 

Fira shivered and whimpered in her fevered slumber. Her hair had been plaited but looked dull, with strands of it plastered to her face from sweat.  It used to shine like raven’s wings. So dark, just like his, that you could catch glimpses of blue within it. Her lips were parted, dry and cracked and he couldn’t take it any longer. Scooping Fira up off the bed, he bundled her into a blanket and wrapped his arms tight around her, sitting back down in his chair. He barked at Jon to hand him a cup of honeyed water and dribbled it into Fira’s mouth, a drop at a time with his own finger, moistening her lips and tongue. If she was going to die then she would be warm, safe and comfortable. It was the last thing he could give her. He recalled weeping when she’d been placed in his arms, minutes after her birth. Boys were good but he had always secretly wanted a girl.

 

“Da’s here,” he whispered into her ear, praying she could hear him. He had always jumped at the opportunity to hold her when she was an infant and cried out in the night. She had shown promise at being a Lady but he had also taught her to do summersaults in a dress, catch frogs and spit, much to Sansa’s dismay.

 

He knew he was nothing but sin in his youth. He had tried hard to cleanse himself after the Blackwater. What act had he done that was so vile it could warrant the Stranger stealing his little girl away? His mind fought back through years of memories to try and find the one that had brought this punishment upon him. He couldn’t find it. Sansa was his first love but Fira was surely his second. Though Sansa and he shared a bed, a name, children and love they were not blood. The boys and Fira were his blood as were his mother and sister. Why could the Gods not let him keep one woman he shared blood with?

 

Jon had left and Sansa crawled her way over to him, kneeling on the floor by his leg. She laid her head in the bit of space left on his knee and pulled Fira’s hand from the blanket so she could kiss it over and over again. Her tears wet his breeches and he felt the tiniest fissure of an all consuming grief break through his shell of granite. Perhaps he did deserve this sorrowful sentence but Sansa did not.

 

They spent most of the night like that. He slowly feeding their girl drops of water and Sansa sniffling at his feet. Towards dawn, Gilly and Sam burst through the door. Sam had found something. It was an ancient remedy and on the verge of being silly folk lore but it might work. There was nothing else to lose. Gilly cupped a warm bowl of some sort of tincture in her hands allowing him to spoon it carefully past the little one’s lips. It took hours to get the entire bowl inside her. When he was done, Gilly offered to hold Fira, so that he could rest. He growled at her to go away and fetch more of the purplish, sour smelling concoction.  Sansa was near to the point of passing out. Sam led her over to Fira’s bed, where she fell into a fitful sleep for a few hours.

 

Osha brought him food later on, letting Sansa sleep while she could. Setting the tray full of small bits of cubed food on a table near his arm, Osha nodded her head at him and left. He ignored the offering. Near dark Osha brought a fresh tray of bread, meat and fruit, taking the untouched plate from earlier away. Sansa pecked at some sliced pear while he refused to even look at any of it. He was working on getting the third bowl of Gilly’s brew into his daughter. The Maester made poultices for Fira’s chest and said she didn’t seem to be improving, though on the other hand, she didn’t seem to be faltering anymore. The wise man warned the both of them that it could be just a false lull of peace before death and not to build their hopes too high.

 

Sansa tried to take Fira from him, begging him to lie down in the bed as she had. He shouted at her, hating himself the entire time and yet, not able to let the girl go. Fira was still clinging to life and he wouldn’t leave her until she had decided if she wished to stay or go. Sansa stayed up as long as she was able, falling asleep wrapped in a blanket by his boots.

 

In the morning, Gilly brought him more of the remedy Sam had found and led a stumbling Sansa from the room to help her bathe and dress in something fresh. Osha arrived with more food and placed it on the usual table. When he didn’t move she grabbed one of his hands and shoved a roll into it. He threw it at the wall.

 

“Damn you! Eat something!” the wildling roared at him. “You’re no good to her weak or dead. She’s not gone yet. She’s only slipped farther down with everyone else but she’s hanging on for you. Stupid man! Eat and keep at it!”

 

Osha forced another roll in his hand and he chewed at it in a detached daze, tears blurring his vision. When he’d finished with the roll, there was an apple in his hand and when he was through that, some cheese. Only after he’d eaten the lot of it did Osha leave him. Near the afternoon she brought stew. Sansa had come back as well, looking slightly more herself, her eyes not quite as glazed over. The rattle in Fira’s chest seemed to have lessened the smallest amount. He gave the girl over to Sansa alone when Osha yelled at him again that he needed rest, just a few short hours. If Fira’s condition changed at all they would wake him. He swallowed down the stew without tasting it and laid on Fira’s bed, as Sansa had. He had to curl into a ball in order to fit but he wouldn’t leave the room. He slept until dark, not meaning to but losing himself to exhaustion.

 

A third night he kept his baby girl in his arms. They tried broth and warm milk as well as Gilly’s tincture. The Maseter visited near midnight and listened to Fira’s chest. The rattle seemed to be abating and the fever lessening but it would be better if the young one would open her eyes or give them some sign of life. She was not clear from the clutches of death until then. Sansa sat at his feet, as she had done before, but made her way to the bed and dozed off at some point in the early hours before dawn.

 

There was nothing but him and the breathing of his two women for a long time. Bowls of various liquids, that Osha had left, sat on the table near him. He dipped his finger into one after the other, forcing nourishment and healing tonics into the girl. There was a moment when he stuck his finger, covered in broth, to her lips and she suckled, feeble as a runt piglet, back. He choked on his relieved sob. Using a clean rag, he dipped the corner into the cooled broth and let her suck at it as much as she wanted while water continued to escape him. Sansa woke at the noise. She leapt out of the bed at the sight of him feeding Fira. She squeezed him around the neck, kissed at his burns and told him it was going to be alright; her own tears mixing with his. For the first time in many days he believed.

 

It took another full day before Fira’s eyes opened. The first thing she said was a questioning “da” and he lost himself to great, wracking sobs all over again. Sansa had once again been lured away by Gilly to be tended by her. Jon had been there. He wept like a babe into his girl’s chest while she sighed and weakly pulled at his hair.  He felt a hand at his shoulder and looked up. Jon sniffed while rubbing at his nose.

 

“I told you,” Jon reminded him with a tight voice. “Just like Bran.”

 

Fira looked at them both confused before complaining that she was thirsty for cider. He laughed, scrubbing the tears off his face with the corner of her blanket. Jon went to fetch her an entire pitcher. When Jon returned, a frantic Sansa ran through the door first. He held Fira out to her, allowing her to press the little one to her chest while she wailed out happy tears and kissed their girl’s face. He rose from his chair to encircle both of them within his arms. Jon left the pitcher on the table and shut the door behind him as he left.

 

“You saved her,” Sansa whispered in awe, looking at him as he’d never seen her do before. He reached behind him to pour a small cup of iced cider and offered it to Fira, who drank greedily.

 

It took days for Fira to regain her strength fully, but she did. He spent many hours a day tending to her himself. The fever never took him. A fortnight after she had licked at his finger, she was running in the small yard with her brothers. He watched all his children laugh and roll on the ground, grateful to someone for not taking his children from him. Sansa snuck up beside him, watching the children, gliding her hand over to pull on one of his. She laid his hand over her lower belly.

 

“The new one will be pleased to meet her siblings,” she smiled, never taking her eyes off of Fira. Sansa always had a sense for what gender their children would be. She had never been wrong. That night he spent himself within her, for the first time since Fira had taken ill, shaking powerfully and near tears. He fell asleep with his face pressed to the new life growing within his wife’s womb. The Gods hadn’t been cruel after all.

 


	9. Thistle and Weeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa - Married for perhaps half a year. Maybe a little longer but no more than a year.

It had to be done. Sandor didn’t like it; but there were loose ends that had yet to be dealt with inside him. A place the Elder Brother had called his soul. He was still undecided as to whether or not he possessed one, though he’d met and retained several people in his life by now to try and convince him otherwise. Each one had encouraged him to take this journey. They said he’d feel better, more at peace, if he did so.

 

The voyage had been hard on all of them. Sansa had, of course, insisted on accompanying him. And if she came, that meant a small army of guards and servants followed. Through mud and muck they all trekked for weeks; down from Winterfell and to the west. The horses grew weary and the wagons broke down almost daily. But Sansa pushed them all forward. There would be no more snow, she declared, winter’s wrath was finally past. They would all be fine if they kept moving. His excuses to turn back fell on deaf ears.

 

“I can’t heal it all on my own,” she had told him before the trip, touching his scars while they lay naked together in bed. “She was important to you and some things you must repair yourself.”  He wanted to be angry and found that he could not. Sansa knew the right words to quiet his fury.

 

“But I’ll come with you,” she said, dragging his hand to her mouth for a kiss. “You don’t have to do it alone.”  They left a fortnight later, to search out the place of his birth.

 

Clegane’s Keep had fallen into disrepair and then complete ruin without a master to lord over it. Stannis had offered him his rightful place as heir to the Keep after Queen Cercei’s fall and he had laughed in the man’s face. He asked for a marriage to the Queen in the North instead as his boon for service under yet one more banner.  Surprisingly, the request had been granted. He was given an audience with the Little Bird, and she had eagerly accepted his proposal.

 

Sandor assumed Stannis wanted him to keep a leash on her but it was the other way around between Sansa and he. The Hound was dead; Sandor Clegane fought in the name of justice now, but he was still a dog. Old habits die hard and other such rubbish, he thought. When Sansa looked at him, it was as if she whistled for her loyal beast to follow. He didn’t mind. She never intentionally made him feel like an animal. He felt a man, now more than ever, with her by his side.

 

They stopped at an inn on the last night of the journey. Rain soaked and mud splattered, she had urged him to take the bath first while she changed into a plain, dry frock. She sought out supper for the two of them on her own, telling her handmaiden and his squire to take the evening off. She had disappeared for an hour, giving him time to himself; the day of wet traveling sinking into the background of his mind, and thoughts of tomorrow’s venture causing his stomach to churn.

 

He was dressed when Sansa returned, her hands full of a large tray that he took from her while reprimanding her over trying to carry so much at one time. Behind her, a small framed serving girl from the inn carried two pitchers and mugs; one full of clear water and the other brown ale with a frothy head.

 

“They didn’t have wine,” Sansa apologized, accepting his help and nodding towards the pitchers.

 

“S’alright,” he answered, fatigue and inner turmoil slurring his words. She gave him an understanding look, and bid him to sit, before handing the serving girl a copper and sending her away. Sansa filled his plate for him. There were many of his favorites; roast duck stuffed with herbs, blood pudding and carrots sliced into coins before being stewed in honey. Bread cubes made crisp in the oven and covered in gravy made from the duck’s renderings. Pears that had been left to simmer in brandy. There was no way the inn had those items just laying around, ready to be dished out. The duck and bread might be, but not the vegetable and fruit. He wasn’t one to subscribe to coincidence. Those were personal details of his that only Sansa would take note of. She must have put herself in the kitchen to make half his meal.

 

There was suddenly a lump in his throat he’d been fighting for months. It was hard for him to express gratitude. Damned hard! She was too good to him at times. When he had offered his hand to her, he had thought they could form an alliance of sorts. And, yes, the desire to bury himself between her thighs was still there, though guilt at feeling that way disappeared as she grew older. He knew she didn’t loathe him and that was a start. One day, he might be able to convince her to feel something warm for him.  What he never had accounted for was the fact that she already felt attached to him. His proposal was as natural a thing to occur as the passing seasons to Sansa. It was a madness he willingly submitted to.

 

The feeling of gratitude had built itself up in layers inside him. Week by week, she gave him new, more frequent reasons to feel blessed. Wonder, joy, satisfaction, rapture, friendship, trust and pleasure. Each feeling was a brick in the wall encompassing the both of them. It took months for him to appreciate the name of the wall; love. It was the key that let her slip through the border that surrounded his heart.

 

Sansa was everything he’d ever hoped for, but also, so much more than he could have imagined; a high born beauty, but one that still retained her compassion. And not a false bone to be found in her body. Not one. He had tried often enough, in the past, to find one and had never been successful. What other Lady would leave the comforts of home for weeks at a time to walk the path of childhood grief with their spouse? Most Ladies he’d observed in his lifetime wouldn’t take the time to listen to their man’s rotting internal troubles, let alone offer to help lance the wounds.

 

As she bent low near his chair, to fill his mug with ale, he grabbed at her. Pulling her swiftly down onto his lap, he heard her squeal in surprise. The pitcher survived his tempered attack though the mug, half full of ale, clattered to the floor.

 

“Sandor, what –“ she stopped short when he laid his head on her shoulder. Thick, red locks tickled his face. He wanted calm and quiet. She gave it to him. Sansa always seemed to know when to press him for words and when to let him find comfort in shared silent moments. “You ought to try and eat something,” she cautioned, after a time. Her fingers massaged the nape of his neck while she spoke.

 

She’d put an enormous amount of food in front of him. It was a ridiculously large portion, even for him. He handed her a fork from the table and held her in place on his lap. Together, they ate from the same plate, though it all tasted of ashes to him. That night, they slept in almost the same position as they had taken at the table; he with his head on her breast and her knees tucked up close to his body.

 

The following day, an hour’s ride had them at the mouth of the Keep. Only the guards had come with them and Sansa had ordered them all to stay back, allowing them to ride up to the front gate alone. It was open, most likely burnt by the charred look of it; the courtyard overrun with shrubs and vines. Crickets chirped and a rabbit bolted in front of their path. It wasn’t a palace, nor a grand estate like Winterfell, but it was large enough and once, long ago, he had called it home. Two stories high, with four moderately tall towers, Clegane’s Keep had been a decent enough residence in its day. Any peasant would have given his leg for a chance at it, Sandor thought while snorting at his own dark jest. Now, one of the towers was crumbling, along with most of the east wall. The front door was missing entirely and there was a tree growing into the structure through a window.

 

“Do you want to go in?” Sansa asked cautiously.

 

“Fuck, no,” he replied, dismounting and hitching his horse to a pole that had somehow survived. “There’s nothing in there but bad memories, Little Bird,” he said more gently, taking her waist and helping her down from her own horse. Sansa understood. When they had been planning their wedding, Stannis had offered the Red Keep’s Sept as a location for the nuptials. Sansa had trembled at the idea, until he had, wisely, declined the invitation and eloped with her to her family’s godswoods that very same day.

 

He marched off to the left of the house, around the side and to the back, where his mother’s garden and small orchard had once stood. The gravel path that marked the way had thinned but was still visible. Sansa followed closely behind, the muffled crunch of her footsteps reminding him of another girl who used to follow him. In the back court yard, he led the way through brush and low, fruit bearing trees. The smell around them was pungent; multiple harvests of overripe fruit falling to rot in the dirt beneath it. Generations of maggots living and dying amongst the decay, warmed by the sun year after year. Winter’s thaw was letting all those trapped smells lose. Sansa coughed into the back of her hand.

 

“You can go back,” he told her, hoping she wouldn’t; she’d made it this far and now he found he actually wanted her there. She didn’t disappoint him, shaking her head and setting her features. Sansa had learned some skills from him just as he had from her.

 

 

Once they made it past the thicket that was the orchard, the land cleared a bit. There were bushes to either side of Sandor, a first hint of blooms on them. Dead center, in front of him, was a massive oak tree. It was larger than he remembered. Of course, it would have grown in the last twenty years, but so had he. The tree was winning where height was concerned. There was a single headstone underneath the tree. His father and mother rested somewhere in a crypt under the Keep. His sister didn’t belong trapped inside cold stone walls. He had buried her himself under the tree she used to sit and read under for hours.

 

Sandor approached the grave hesitantly. After his sister’s death, Sandor had come, once a year, until his father also passed, and then he had turned his back on the house of his youth. He used to clean the grave during his visits. His long absence showed. The state of her grave was disgraceful. Thick brambles and useless weeds covered his sister’s resting spot. Sansa was still there but she was back several paces, letting him have this moment to himself.

 

“Thistle and weeds,” his sister had told him, when others mocked his face. “It’s only thistle and weeds they speak. It takes no effort to plant them but they’re terribly hard to uproot. Don’t let them cover you.”  She had been the only thing left keeping him together for the first few years after the burns.

 

She wept when he went off to war, lying about his birth year in order to squire at an unbelievably young age. “You come back,” she had cried. “And mind the weeds, Sandor. They won’t stop trying to take root, no matter where you go.”

 

She had been right, of course. But he was too young and full of what would later become rage to listen. He should have never left her. It was an accident, everyone said. The stairs were poorly lit and the carpeting by the stairs loose. And Gregor had been home. Sandor knew. He could never prove it, but he knew. He came back to the Keep straight away when he’d been told, to find her laid out in the crypts, covered in white lace and orchids, awaiting entombment. Carrying her body out to the tree, he spent all afternoon digging a grave for her. Gregor tried to stop him, while their father had sat in a corner drinking himself blind.  It was the first time he ever gained the upper hand and bloodied his brother’s lip. Gregor shrugged after that, calling both his siblings a waste of life and spitting on their sister’s corpse. Sandor had wiped the spittle from her and laid her in the ground. He had failed her by not protecting her and also by letting the weeds of mankind take over his spirit, just as she had feared would happen.

 

“Sandor, stop,” Sansa’s voice cut through the memories. Sandor started and looked around him. He’d fallen to his knees, wet grass and dirt staining his breeches. His hands were bloodied and there were clumps of vegetation and twigs all around him. He’d been tearing up the overgrowth with his bare hands. Sitting back on his heels, he stared at the cuts on his fingers and the thorns embedded in his palms. He was breathing hard and Sansa was holding his face in her hands.

 

“No thistles or weeds,” he said shakily. “She told me. She _told_ me.” He knew he was babbling, barely controlling the flood of anguish seeing her grave had brought on. Sansa nodded her head.

 

“It’s alright, shhh,” she said softly. “We’ll clear it away. All of it. Just stop using your hands, love. Stay here. I’ll come right back.”  She sprinted from him, hitching up her skirts and dashing beneath the limbs of the gnarled fruit trees. Sandor gulped and waited, resisting the urge to start tearing up more of the twisted plants that seemed to be everywhere. He picked at the thorns still lodged within his flesh instead.

 

Sansa wasn’t gone long, as she had promised. She carried with her two short spades the soldiers used to free stuck wagons wheels. Sandor took the one she held out to him, remembering a much larger spade he had wielded just three years ago on an Isle that was quiet and tranquil. It seemed he’d been a gravedigger most of his life, in one form or another; laying bodies to rest and clearing the graves after. But there was a Little Bird now to keep him company through his labor.

 

The work was toilsome; the prickly weeds had sent their roots deep into the earth.  Sandor offered his cloak to Sansa, bidding her to sit and let him take on the tiresome task. She looked at him and shook her head in that exasperated, slightly irritated way of hers. As if he were a child that hadn’t yet figured out the simple lesson being taught. So he lowered his head and accepted her help. It wasn’t that he thought her incapable; she had a strong and tenacious side. But at times, he still couldn’t fathom why she would want to share it with _him_.

 

He watched her dig from the corner of his eye. She’d worn leather shoes with hardy brass buckles instead of embroidered slippers. The faded brown, weather-beaten toe of one peeked out from the bottom of her dress when she pushed the shovel into the ground. His Lady had come prepared. Moving at a pace twice as fast as hers, he cleared the half he had claimed and then circled back to aid her in finishing. They were both sweating by the end of it; a flush on Sansa’s face that made him forget his troubled musings for a moment.

 

“That’s better,” Sansa announced, placing a hand on the top of the grave, reverence and affection both apparent in the gesture.  Sandor heard her speak but the next words weren’t for him. “It would have been nice to have an older sister. I’m sorry we never met. Your brother is kind to me. I think you taught him that. He forgot for awhile but you’d be proud of him now.”

 

Sandor gnawed at the inside of his cheek savagely, the ache in his chest overwhelming and the sting in his eyes unbearable. Sansa turned and took in his distressed stance; his struggle to remain unmoved in her presence. Her look was loving, not pitying or disgusted, as she rose and closed the distance between them. Though he found himself with his arms wrapped around her they both knew she was the support in that moment.

 

“We could move some of the roses,” she whispered with care, pointing at the brush around them. There were large rose bushes, which were out of control, just like all the rest of the yard. “See the little shoots at the bottom?  We can dig them up and replant them here. Then she can have blanket of flowers.” He nodded his cheek against the crown of her head, sniffing loudly. “We can come back,” she continued. “Every year if you like. We can see how much the roses have grown. The children would like an adventure away from home.”

 

He almost shoved her out of his hold, grasping at her chin and looking deeply into her eyes. Children! He was terrified. He wasn’t ready for children!

 

“Not yet,” she laughed, sensing his panic. Then she blushed. “But some day. And probably sooner than you’d like.”

 

The sigh that escaped him was heavy with relief.  “Don’t do that,” he growled, returning her to his embrace. She’d distracted him. His bird was clever.

 

“Stop coming to my bed so often if you don’t want them,” she countered.

 

He laughed, the first pleasant emotion he’d felt in days. “Bugger that,” he cursed. Then he took a few steps back, off of his sister’s grave, pulling Sansa along with him. He kissed her. Long and sweetly, hoping she could hear the “thank you” hidden within the touch.

 

 


	10. Awake My Soul

Sandor watched her sleeping. Sansa, his wife of two years, was beside him in bed. Each lay on their sides facing one another. It was well past dawn but the servants knew better than to bother them. When they wanted attending to, they would open their door. Sandor had been awake for almost an hour, watching her. He wanted to claim her, and mark her, and cry into her hair all at once. He’d missed so much the past few months and had only just returned home to her yesterday.

 

The furs between them moved. A tiny bundle, wrapped in soft, yellow swaddling blankets, coughed as she stretched. The color of her blankets matched her hair; pale, golden white, like that of the chicks in the hen houses. Sansa had questioned the shade until Sandor explained his mother had blonde locks. It was his father that he, and his siblings, had inherited their black hair from. There was no mistaking the gray eyes though, that matched his own. If she kept the gold upon her head, one day, his daughter was going to make a striking young woman with her combination of colors rarely seen.

 

_His daughter._

 

He didn’t know if he should laugh with joy or tremble in fear. When Sansa had announced she was with child, he’d dropped the bottle of wine he’d been holding –a damned good vintage he’d been sorry to see wasted- before holding her as he knew he should, while his heart tried to leap from his chest. They’d gone over a year married with no sign of children. He had thought, perhaps, the Gods had seen fit to make one of them barren.

 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t want children. Not exactly. It had just never bothered him to any extent that there were none. He was too gruff. And loud. Impatient and foul tempered. Children weren’t a good idea. They were a _terrible_ idea. Four months after the babe had been announced, he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself any longer. Sansa had smiled, climbing into his lap and putting both his hands on the lump in her belly.

 

“I remember you saying something similar before we wed,” she told him, smugly. “You’re a fine husband and you will learn to be a great father as well.”

 

She had him there. Marriage had _not_ been the disaster he thought it would be. There had been ups and downs. Raised voices and soothing murmurs. Tears and forgiving couplings after that made him hard whenever he thought back on them. All of it blended together into something that often left him speechless. Until, one night, he understood it was love that the threads of conversations, kisses and promises had woven together, to settle around the two of them, as secure and warm as a thick blanket.

 

There had been scales over his eyes and a curse on his heart before she came along. It had taken time apart from her for him to come to understand all she meant to him. When they reunited, he expected nothing and hoped for _everything_. She’d whispered in his ear the remedy to his plight and his vision had become clear. Her hand in his, they had made a life for themselves. And now they shared it with one more.  

 

During the last month of the babe’s growth, the lines in the South had been breeched and his skill as leader and shield had been needed. Neither Sansa nor Bran were up to the task. They were the minds and he the sword that kept Winterfell safe. He didn’t move as quickly as before his time on the Quiet Isle but he wasn’t useless. When he knew that the lines would not hold without him it had nearly killed him. Truly. It hurt worse than all the blows he’d been dealt physically over the years; trying to make his heart restart after realizing he would miss his child’s birth. Sansa was already two weeks into her confinement, though she still took long walks around the grounds, much to the maester’s dismay.

 

“If you don’t take the extra men South, what future will there be for the little one?”  Sansa had asked.  She held his face in her hands and kept love in her eyes. “Come back to us. I can do this on my own but I will miss you.”

 

So he did as she commanded and marched. Three weeks later, a raven arrived at the muddied camp. There was no snow anymore, but rain pelted the land five days out of seven. It was miserable, and yet, the raven’s news made that day one of his sweetest. The babe and Sansa were in good health, the maester wrote. The delivery had been swift and without complications. His daughter was a healthy size and ate within her first hour outside her mother. All good signs that she was robust and would likely make it through her first few months.

 

Sandor read the words in the pouring rain, heedless of the damage the drops caused to the parchment and ink. He counted the days from the date at the top of the page. Two days ago he had become a father. The damned raven must have flown with barely any pause. It was perched on his shoulder, waiting to be rewarded. He gutted one of the dead rabbits attached to his horse’s saddle, giving all the offal to the bird. It cawed with delight in his ear before swooping down to the ground to finish its meal.

 

Folding the piece of sodden paper, he placed it within his jerkin and made to close the leather casing that had carried the message. His fingers brushed against something else. Glancing down into darkness, he then made for his tent with haste. Sheltered from the storm outside, he emptied the remaining items, hidden at the bottom of the cylinder, into his palm. A small, torn piece of parchment and a curl of blonde hair stared back at him. He recognized Sansa’s handwriting. Words blurred in front of him. He blamed the rain in his eyes not the burning in his chest.

 

_The nest is full. I love you._

It had taken another month to settle the borders and make his way home. And the bloody river between him and his goal had swollen to the point where no ferry could cross! He had raged and cursed the Gods before taking half the party farther South to seek out a shallow place to cross. Some of the men had tried to convince him to wait. The rain couldn’t last forever and in a few weeks time the river would shrink once again, they said. But he had no patience for it. He wasn’t going to sit idly by when there was a family waiting on him. Sansa had sent several more letters describing their daughter’s features and first weeks. Each one tore another chunk of his heart out.

 

Six weeks. It took them six weeks to find a suitable place to cross and struggle their way through muck and mire back up the river’s bank to their home in the North. The rain didn’t stop. He gloated in his mind, thinking of the men still stuck on the other side.

 

He rode ahead on the last leg of their journey. Spurring his horse on, he kept the beast at a gallop for most of the day, promising the animal all the carrots and apples it could eat, as well as the finest mare in the stables, if only it would give him one more hour of speed. The horse did as he asked, delivering him to the gates of Winterfell well before anyone in the half party that had braved the woods and river with him.

 

He hadn’t bathed in four, maybe five days. He stank of sweat and campfires. There were twigs stuck to his cloak and he knew his hair was lank with oil. And yet, when Sansa burst forth from the doors of the main house, she looked at him as if he were Jaime and Lancel and every other buggering, picturesque Knight combined. She threw herself off the last few steps separating them, forcing him to catch her. He could not say that he minded as he breathed in a scent that had been lost to him the past few months.

 

It truly struck him, that there was a babe yet to meet, when he realized there was no belly between him and the wife he held fast to his chest. Carefully, he placed Sansa on her feet and put his hand to the place where the baby once rested. Sansa laughed, with tears of joy in her eyes, and took his hand in hers, pulling him through the doors of their home, oblivious of the wet clothing he still wore and the mud he tracked through the halls. She led him up to a door close to their bedchamber and pressed a single finger to her lips, bidding him to be quiet, and pushed the door open.

 

Curtains had been hung in the room, but remained open; allowing what little sunlight there was to cast its warm rays over a cradle. There was a nursemaid nearby, silently sitting and sewing. The woman rose and curtsied when she saw the two of them and Sansa, in a whisper, asked her to wait outside. The nursemaid walked from the room while Sansa made her way over to the side of the cradle. She beckoned to him with a curl of a few fingers, but he remained rooted to his spot in the middle of the room.

 

Sandor Clegane and never boasted that he was a brave man, but he knew he was far from a coward. The little girl across the room turned him craven as a whipped dog. Even with fire he could set his body into motion, but now, his body froze in apprehension. He stood, helpless, willing his feet to move. They would not. Sansa gave him a smile full of understanding and bent low to gather the babe into her arms.

 

There was a sound from the bundle lying in the crook of her arm. A gurgling sort of sigh. A coo, he thought; a stinging sensation prickling the back of his eyes. He now had _two_ little birds. One to sing and one to coo and he was the lost dog between the both of them, beyond grateful for having been brought in out of the cold; hoping they would never tire of him or cast him back outside.

 

Sansa brought the babe to him, since his traitorous body kept him from approaching her. She pulled a blanket back and let him look. He was certain his heart stopped. He’d seen babes before but nothing could compare to _her_. Nothing could have prepared him for the feeling, the overwhelming something, that possessed and took over him in that moment. He had thought Sansa had laid claim to everything inside him. He’d been wrong. The sleeping, pink faced girl in Sansa’s arms had taken all from him in the time it took to let out a breath. And he was _glad_ for it.

 

He blinked, feeling wetness trail down his unblemished cheek. Sansa wiped at her own eyes and then stretched her arms out to offer him the babe. His feet had disobeyed him but his hands sprang out to hold his daughter with no thought behind the action. Then he saw the riding gloves still on his hands; the grime and blood of his travels splattered across his sleeves. He drew his hands back swiftly, shaking his head.

 

“I’m filthy,” he stated, each word broken and guttural. It wasn’t just his clothing he spoke of.

 

Sansa’s lips pressed together, nodding her head and placing the babe back at her breast. She looked him straight in the eye. “You’re road worn, aye,” she started, using one of his favorite words, “but there’s not a thing wrong beyond that. Don’t you dare fall back on old ways. Not now. She needs you more than that ghost does.”  Then she grinned at him, her eyes alight with mischief. “Shall I let her sleep and help my Lord husband with his bath?” she asked.

 

He laughed, thankful for the break in the growing tension between them. “Aye,” he agreed. “That sounds like a fine idea, Little Bird.”  

 

She did as she’d promised; bathing him first in warm water and oils. She dried him, giving his growing length a few playful tugs before instructing him to eat first. He ignored her. Sansa could order him about in the meeting house and the high courtroom but not in their chambers. Not after being gone from her for so long. He took her; half clothed, with her skirts bunched up to her waist and on top of the furs on their bed. He tried hard not to disappoint her, but the time spent away left him drained within minutes. Sansa giggled but reassured him it was in happiness at his eagerness, not an appraisal of his performance.

 

She tided herself, and sent for food while he dozed. When he woke, the babe was at her breast, suckling, and mounds of food were set upon their table. He ate. The babe ate. Sansa nibbled at fruit with one hand and fussed over the girl. And Sandor Clegane was certain he’d finally found his soul.

 

 


	11. Dustbowl Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea when I'll ever get back to Blood on the Tracks. But this was the song that started it all so here's a taste of where it was going. 
> 
>  
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNLCKuz4EVs

Sansa watched him from across the low fire he had permitted them. It was late, past midnight, but even Sandor had to admit neither they, nor the horses, could go any farther without a proper rest. For the past two days it had been nothing but riding, with brief periods when water was spotted, to allow the horses no more than ten minutes to drink and graze, while he put bread in her hand that she did not eat. Then it was back in the saddle until she started to fall asleep on top of her mare, almost falling to the ground at some point. After that, Sandor put her in front of him, and they rode double on the great, black beast of his. She was able to doze, leaning against him. He was warm at least, and smelled of leather, animal pelts and the tobacco he used to roll his cigarettes. It was different, but not unpleasant.

 

When she began to weep silently into his shirt, and the stallion beneath them trembled, Sandor finally led the horses to a rocky wall that curved inward to form a natural V. Their backs against the rocks, Sandor first built them a fire before watering the horses. Now, as Sansa watched him, he began to dig through one of the saddlebags. Tears still leaked from Sansa’s eyes, though she barely felt them. It was hard to feel anything at all. The world had gone silent after the sound of gunshot. Sansa could still hear well enough; she hadn’t gone deaf, but her mind no longer seemed able to register any of the information her senses tried to give her.

 

Sandor grunted, a twitch at the corner of his burned mouth indicating he was, for once, pleased. In his hands, he held a brown bottle that he uncorked with his teeth and immediately drank from. Sansa sniffed, drawing her knees up to her chest and rubbing her nose with the shawl she had grabbed in their haste to flee the Lannister’s estate. It had been a nightmare there. A walking nightmare that she thought never to escape from. But then the Hound gave her a choice, and she chose to wake. God help her if she had made the wrong decision.

 

Sansa held onto her knees tighter, remembering.

 

 

_“Please! Not like this!” Sansa begged. There hadn’t even been a wedding yet! Joff meant to disgrace her first! He meant to force and take from her!_

_Joff laughed at her. He laughed and Sansa sobbed, facedown on a feather bed while Joff pressed a knee into her back. She wanted to fight but knew it would do her no good. She might have been able to match Joff’s slender frame in strength for a few minutes but Sansa also knew Joff would use his fists or worse on her. But then again, if she struggled, maybe we would beat her until she slept and then she would never have to know what he felt like inside her._

_Sansa cried out when Joff pulled her hair, arching her back. She was like a kitten held by the scruff of its neck. All her flailing and swatting did nothing. “Joffrey please, please,” Sansa tried once more. Her answer was the sound of her skirts ripping. True terror took her then, the knowledge that he was absolutely going to go through with it, causing Sansa to scream. Then a hand clamped over her mouth and she couldn’t breathe! She was suffocating on fear and tears. The room swayed as she felt something hot and hard push between her thighs. . ._

_The door burst like it had been rigged with dynamite. The Hound stood in the doorway, revolver drawn and pointed at the both of them. He was terrible to look at, but not as sinister as the man behind her. The entire doorway was taken up by his frame and he had to stoop in order to enter the room. He caught her eye, as Sansa felt her hair being released. Then the hand was gone from her mouth as well. ._

_“The hell is this? Dog, get back outside or father will hang you this time!” Joff threatened._

_“Please,” Sansa mouthed. “Help me, please.”_

_His response was instantaneous. He looked her in the eye, moved the revolver an inch and fired. She shouted and jerked when the gun went off, the white coverlet in front of her immediately soiled with a wet splatter of blood. Sansa gaped, silent screams trapped in her throat, as she watched Joffrey claw at his neck. Blood poured from between his fingers, as he gurgled and choked, falling first to his knees and then to the floor. Black liquid seeped into the floorboards and under Sansa’s shoes. As her fiancé drowned in his own blood, Sansa shook, trying to cover herself with the remains of her skirt and petticoat. She forced herself to lift her eyes away from Joff’s cooling body, to the Hound’s boots and slowly up to his face. He stood still, his revolver held low, but not holstered._

_He had never stopped looking directly at her._

Something cold pressed against the back of Sansa’s hand. It was the brown bottle, and Sandor was squatting next to her. “Take it,” he rasped, forcing her fingers around the neck of the bottle. “It’ll help you sleep.” Sansa recoiled at the smell, her stomach revolted by the thought of liquor at a time like this. “Drink,” he said more forcefully. Sansa pinched her nose shut, and sipped from the bottle while he chuckled at her.

 

He rose and whistled for his horse, but left the bottle in her care. She ignored it. Her throat burned as did her eyes. Smoke and liquor be damned, it was her heart that made each sting. She didn’t want Joffrey’s assault, of course she didn’t, but she hadn’t meant for anyone to die! And the Hound had let him bleed out! He had denied Joffrey the mercy of quick shot to the head. It was horrible to think on, but he had provided her a solution. Now she was free. In a sense. She watched the Hound rummage through his saddlebags and come back with a bundle of cloth and a cup.

 

He gave her salted beef next, and though she wanted to vomit at the thought of attempting to eat, she dared not make him angry.  “Won’t stay down if you don’t try and eat,” he explained pointing at the bottle still clutched tightly in her hand. He reached for it and poured a measure into the cup, trading her and drinking deeply once again from the bottle. “Just tilt it back, girl. One swallow, it’s not hard.”

 

Sansa nibbled at the meat he’d given her. It tasted rotten but she knew it was her own tongue making her meal sour. She closed her eyes, tried to be brave and gulped down the entire swig of liquor he’d given her. Her belly caught fire as she coughed. Tears welled in her eyes. It was a furnace filled with coal! He’d given her hellfire to drink! The insides of her _ears_ burned.

 

“Do I have to drink more?” she said weakly.

 

He glared at her and snatched the cup out of her hand. “Don’t _have_ to do anything.”  

 

Shoving the remainder of his beef into his mouth, he stood again and marched over to the horses. His cheek bulged as if were filled with chewing tobacco as he worked two bedrolls free from Sansa’s mare. One he tossed beside her and the other he put on the opposite side of the fire, at his feet. He knelt and scooped up dirt with his hands, making two separate indentations in the earth. Sansa watched him move. He was large but not ungraceful. Every movement had purpose and his focus was unwavering, despite the level of liquor in the bottle having been significantly reduced.

 

“Does it help you sleep too?” she asked, not thinking, and wishing she hadn’t spoken.

 

Sandor paused, while smoothing out the wrinkles of his blanket. “Not enough drink in all the world for that, little bird,” he said softly to the cowhide in front of him. He looked up and frowned at her, then sighed and made his way over, doing the same with the earth and blankets next to her, as he had done with his own. “Tell me if it’s not right,” he said and Sansa had no idea what he was talking about until she laid herself down and found her shoulders and hips fit snugly into the dips he’d created.

 

“It’s fine,” she whispered. “Thank you.” She hadn’t forgotten her courtesies; even out in the wild, with a man that she was coming to understand wasn’t nearly as much of an animal as she once believed. Sansa pulled her blanket up to her chin. Her fingers tingled and a sleepy feeling crept over her. Sandor placed himself between her and the night. She heard the click of a firearm being cocked.

 

“Where are we going?” she dared to ask.

 

“West,” he answered, back turned to her, and Sansa stifled a sob, wondering what he had in store for her. Then she blinked back startled, happy tears when he continued. “Only at first. They won’t expect it. After that we’ll go North. Back to your mother and brother. I’m going to take you home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
